


Model Behaviour

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor, M/M, Modelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:12:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh my god." Stiles is studiously not looking at anything but his screen. "Are you sure the photographer was legit?"</p>
<p>"Yes." Derek frowns. "I have his card somewhere. Matt, Matt Daehler?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Model Behaviour

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://jerakeenc.tumblr.com/post/45672146604/devildoll-look-at-him-all-i-seem-to-do-these), found on my tumblr [here](http://bacarat.tumblr.com/post/45696442684/jerakeenc-devildoll-look-at-him-all-i-seem).
> 
> Hey, I wrote model!fic. I have so much otherwise-useless headcanon about this universe now.

"Oh my god." Stiles is studiously not looking at anything but his screen. "Are you sure the photographer was legit?"

" _Yes_." Derek frowns. "I have his card somewhere. Matt, Matt Daehler?" He'd expected, well, he didn't know what exactly—Stiles is a good agent and a terrible human being, which on most days evens out to an cutting cruelty that works in Derek's favour, both in public and private—but not this.

"I have no idea who he is, but you  _cannot_  use [these headshots](http://jerakeenc.tumblr.com/post/45672146604/devildoll-look-at-him-all-i-seem-to-do-these) unless you're going for a skin mag."

He swallows too quickly, still thinking about those public and  _private_  things, and chokes on his spit. Whatever, he's not PR. "What?" 

"And even then, only retro '70s porn where this lighting is  _ironic_." 

"It was natural light," Derek says automatically, going on the defensive. Like Stiles has any right to talk about irony, hipster that he is: the subject is a product of, and cannot objectively evaluate its environment. He's pretty sure models are supposed to be the difficult ones. "He said the concept was supposed to be—" He thinks back to last week, Matt behind his camera, eyes fixed on Derek and pile of loose chain behind him, "—restraint."

Shit.

Stiles has evidently boarded and already alighted from Derek's idiot train of thought, shaking his head and muttering underneath his breath. He pulls out his phone and starts jabbing at it. "The only restraint he showed with that shirt was photoshopping out your nip— _H_ _ey_ , Danny. I need you to check something for me."

Derek reaches for the monitor and gets his hand slapped away.

He still doesn't quite understand why everyone at Alpha calls each other on their cellphones when they're within one minute's walk from each other, in the same office. An office with  _phones._ Stiles had said something about unhealthy childhood codependence the first time Derek walked in, when he and Laura had moved from California a few weeks ago. He believes it, he's seen Stiles and Scott drunk together.

"Yeah. Who was the one who Allison complained about a few months ago? Uh-huh. It's in a fucking garage or something—"

"Warehouse," Derek supplies.

"It was a  _warehouse_ ," Stiles says, glaring at Derek like it's  _his_ fault that the photos are bordering on—not going to go there. "Yeah, okay. Thanks." He sets his phone down far more gently than his tone belies, stroking a little caress over the screen. (Fashion people are weirdly attached to their iPhones, Derek only has the second-most recent model thanks to Laura, who perfectly fulfills the stereotype. Stiles isn't an exception either, but it looks good in his hands, covered by those long curling fingers—also not going there.)

"He's a certified creep." Stiles glares and pushes his hipster glasses up; Derek is suddenly aware of his dick hardening against his leg.  _Fuck._  "Scott probably didn't put his name up because he was too busy comforting Allison, he's lucky I listen to his monologues when she's in Paris." He slumps into his chair and tilts his head back, throat bared in an obscene stretch, and wow, Derek is actually fulfilling  _every model stereotype_ today.

"I'm sending you to Lydia."

"Lydia  _Martin_?" Everyone in New York fashion knows Lydia Martin; the only reason she's still 'up and coming' is her age, and that the old guard at Conde Nast and Hearts are bitter, defensive fucks.  Her photography was once described by a snarky blogger as ' _soul-sucking. but in the best way possible. obvs_ '. Lydia had tweeted a screencap and the link; the hate traffic overwhelmed their server within five minutes. The blog was down by the next day, Laura had called it a thing of great beauty. "Stiles, there's no way she'll agree." 

"She will." Stiles picks up his phone again, already tapping madly. 

Derek knows Stiles is good, but not  _that_  good. Martin is famously temperamental and exacting, takes forever to choose the models and staff, and wraps her shoots like a drill sergeant.  _Vogue_  might not take her, but everyone else wants her. Even Derek knows that, after Laura blocked National Geographic on their wi-fi and set his browser homepage to  _Women's Wear Daily_. 

"How is that possible? She does  _Self-Service_ _,_ not  _Nylon_. She doesn't even shoot men's stuff."

"You're better than  _Nylon_ , everyone knows that," Stiles says absently, "but she's actually been looking into it, just she said she won't do men's unless it's someone more attractive than Jackson. " 

Derek's first interaction with Jackson consisted of being stared at for five seconds, being told not to shave 'precisely twenty-four hours before your castings', then seeing the next few guys and girls in line reduced to tears. He's seen and nodded at him a few times since, coming in and out of the agency. Jackson used to model, is now Alpha's notoriously picky image consultant; Laura had liked all the models they sent her. Derek trusts her judgment, because there's a reason she went to fashion school and he studied wolves for six years. So yeah, Jackson's good, but he's also an asshole and the only thing that Stiles or anyone else can threaten him with is Danny or his sometimes-girlfriend—

"Oh _._ " He's an idiot. Maybe being around models is instituting some kind of reverse osmosis in his brain, slowly and systematically breaking down his logical thought processes.

" _Oh_ ," Stiles mocks, grinning and eyes dancing. "Hey, don't worry. We've all known each other since kindergarten, did I tell you that? Lyds will do it, she loves me. And you're hot."

Derek blinks, still struggling to catch up to the conversation. "I didn't know you knew her."

"Yeah, she and Jackson dated in high school. She convinced me to be her model for her first photography course." 

Stiles as a teenager, probably even lankier than he is now, but with the same mouth, do  _not_ go there, do not. "Won't Jackson be pissed off?"

"Probably," Stiles says cheerfully, "but you know my relationship with him is based on mutual enmity. And his relationship with Lydia is based on his being stupid in love with her. At the beginning of sophomore year, she said my cheekbones could rival his, he's never forgotten it."

This morning, Derek would have laughed if somebody had told him that he'd be feeling jealous of Jackson and Lydia Martin. Now he's trying not to get harder in his seat across from his agent and possible-probable-crush.

"It'll be mutually beneficial for all parties. Jackson gets a new credit, you get to work with Lydia Martin, and she gets her first men's shoot and a jealous Jackson. Excellent for their sex life." He sighs. "Don't ask me, I know too much about my friends' sex lives. And they're my coworkers too, it's probably illegal on some level."

"And you?" Derek says, cautious. It almost sounds too good to be true, like the precursor to every New York newcomer's horror story. He trusts Stiles though, he realizes. Thinks of him as someone on Derek's side, a good agent and a better friend, and when did that happen?

"My sex life?" Stiles squeaks, flush already rising the edge of his jaw up his cheeks. It makes him look younger, even more than his twenty-looking twenty-five, in a way his suits and thick-framed glasses can't hide. It's fascinating, and Derek just wants to  _bite_. 

"No," he says, pushing down the beginnings of what will most likely be tonight's jerk-off fantasy, because he's never seen Stiles flustered  _like this_. "The—the photos?"

"The photos," Stiles repeats, looking slightly dazed. "Uh, don't worry. Lydia knows what I like." 

Derek's dick  _jolts_  and he knows his face is warming to match Stiles', shitfuck, he is so  _gone_ on him and his stupid blush that's stretching down to his unbuttoned collar now. 

"Oh my god, can we pretend I never said that?" Stiles snatches up his phone again. "I'm sending you over to Jackson right now, okay, just tell him to read his email. I'm sorry, I swear we don't creepily come onto our models all the time, we're not that kind of agency. It's just me and my stupid mouth. Sorry."

He slumps into his chair and looks kind of miserable, a world away from the Stiles who welcomed Derek to the agency and talked him through the paperwork, looked him in the eye for more than five minutes at a time. Not like the Stiles who makes the rounds at every party, a warm and purely friendly weight against his side. Entirely unlike the Stiles, who favours just-indirect-enough quips to survive in a cutthroat environment (that's also how Derek knows he doesn't really hate Jackson—their last conversation involved the words 'buttface' and 'dumbfuck').

Stiles, who always gets the last, sarcastic word. And that,  _that_  makes Derek hopeful in a terrible, terrible way. 

"It's not..." Derek weighs the words in his mind, on his tongue. Stiles like cheese and platitudes; Derek just likes it when Stiles is smiling. And he thinks that's part of both the problem and the potential solution. "Um, it's not creepy if it's reciprocal, right?" 

Stiles' head snaps up.

"Also, I like your stupid mouth," adds his traitor brain, but Stiles grins and laughs and laughs.


End file.
